


Fear Not the Darkness

by Pendancy



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, End of game spoilers, Episode Ignis, Gen, Noctis has a potty mouth, Slice of Life, Slightly Canon-Divergent, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 22:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16774603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pendancy/pseuds/Pendancy
Summary: A high price is paid after Ignis' battle with Ardyn, but is it necessary for Noctis to become aware so quickly with all that lies ahead of him? One-shot.





	Fear Not the Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Just wrapped Episode Ignis. My first FFXV fic, so though I usually don't really care: feedback is appreciated! Ignis is my dude; I'm considering apping him into a game and so I'm trying to find his voice. Crit is beyond welcome. Thanks for reading in advance.

It burns — (and Ignis knew it would, knew because Ravus gave his arm for it and the blood that runs through his veins is far from royal) — like the sting of lightning the moment he slips the ring over his finger. Burns to where death seems a better option than the necessity of bravery, but the prince is lying unconscious and Ardyn is here to end them all.  
  
What choice did he have?  
  
_Stand by my son._  
  
So he does. He stands and he _fights_ and by the Six, he is victorious if victory can be measured in body counts and the preservation of breath. Sacrifice is a given; they've all lost something to see this through to the end. Fate, happenstance: Noctis will become the One True King if Ignis has to tear out his eyes to see it come to fruition.  
  
And he does, in a way.  
  
The battle (one of a hundred) has been won, things are as quiet as they are expected in the aftermath. Noctis lies comfortably in a plush hotel bed and Ignis has seen the Prince's (King's) end in flashes of pain and violence. His young prince is older in that possible future, bearded, but most importantly — he is alone.  
  
_Stand by my son._  
  
The throne was not surrounded by his retainer, his shield, his friend. Only effigies of kings long-dead, and Noct had joined them in nothing short of a sacrificial slaughter. Pierced again and again, he'd accepted it as though it was his duty to die, to become nothing greater than lifeless bodies buried beneath the rubble of Insomnia, wrought with war at the hands and weapons of the Empire. There was no more boy who uttered a soft, rebellious _t'ch_ at the insistence that he eat his vegetables (Kings must be healthy in order to rule their people); there was no overconfident smirk that he would succeed in a hunt. Instead, a soul surrendered. Broken. No peace had been made; Ignis could feel that as acutely as the centers of his irises going darker and darker.  
  
He sees it. Sees it again and again — in consciousness, in sleep — when he can see nothing else. The carnage plagues him, but it is his curse to hold close. Noctis has already been burdened with so much. Second-hand visions of his death isn't something that should be added to the fray.  
  
"Noctis."  
  
The tap of a boot-toe against furniture will do nothing to rouse a sleeping prince who cherishes sleep above all else, but today it does. If Ignis' dreams are fitful, Noct's are doubtlessly vivid nightmares. Ones from which he must be grateful to wake.  
  
"Noct."  
  
"Mm?" As though Ignis is waking him for supper.  
  
His back is to his charge, the walking stick set down. If Noctis would _look at him_ , he would notice. In this moment, he is grateful for the prince's self-absorption. Sunlight filters through curtains; he can feel the warmth on his shoulders, in the room's air, but the brightness of it is lost to him. Other senses will become acute, he knows. The occasional bird at the window, the rustling of the prince's body against soft sheets. The annoyed edge in Noct's tone when he urges Ignis to speak.  
  
"Out with it, Iggy." Princes are brats and Kings are demanding, and Noctis is somewhere in-between. King by right — his father is dead, after all — a Prince by way of pure inexperience.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
"No."  
  
Of course he isn't. The Oracle has perished. Does he even know? Wounds can be healed; at what point during their encounter with Leviathan did Noct fall?  
  
"Ah, of course." Ignis speaks gently. It's necessary, given all that has transpired. Necessary, given what he is about to suggest. "This journey — " (This bloodbath) " — perhaps it is time for us to bring it to an end." There is a strange conviction to his words; perhaps it will give away the truth that he knows something that Noctis does not. No matter. His visions will not be revealed. Noctis has no feasible way of seeing anything beyond the past, the present.  
  
"What?" Noct rises to his knees behind him; leans in so that his voice is a threat of battle in his retainer's ears. "Are you _serious_? How can you say that with all we've sacrificed?"  
  
(And oh, if Noctis only knew. But he will. One way or another. A blind man cannot hide his affliction for long.)  
  
"Iggy!" And if Ignis could see, he would flinch. Maybe he does. "Answer me! We've come this far and you, of all people, want to give up?"  
  
"No, Your Highness, I never suggested that we — "  
  
"You did!" The anger of one hundred and thirteen kings before him. "You want to, what, let our duty go and see how it resolves? Do you need more cities to fall, Ignis? The outposts — does Hammerhead have to become a crater before you realize we don't have a choice?"  
  
"My Prince — "  
  
"Stop with the fucking formalities," Noctis sneers, and Ignis and picture his upper lip rising in disgust. " _Servant_."  
  
All right. All right, he understands the root of Noct's ire. The weight of the world rests on his shoulders and his brother in battle scrawls a title over his head with a defeated, meticulous hand. Noctis is close enough to breathe heated, frustrated wisps on the back of Ignis' neck.  
  
"I understand."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"Noctis," the shift of his body is unintentional, but when has he ever been hesitant to face his childhood friend?  
  
A catch of breath; a secret revealed.  
  
"Iggy." And he can hear the swallow. "What's wrong with your face?"  
  
"Ah," and Ignis raises a hand to run a gloved finger over the fresh burn-scars that mar part of his upper cheek, sunglasses securely in place. "There was a battle while you were unconscious — we prevailed. A minor wound."  
  
"Bullshit," Noctis' grip is weak, yet determined when he wraps his fingers around Ignis' shoulder, attempts to force him to turn fully. "Look at me."  
  
"A flesh wound, I —"  
  
" _Look at me._ "  
  
(Apologies, my Prince. I cannot.)  
  
What are eyes in the face of breath? The King will fall; Ignis' premonition granted him nothing beyond that. Will all the world fall with him? Will his sacrifice be what the people need in order to keep on? Victory or defeat? Kings perish, cities crumble to piles of ash and debris, lives are brought into the world and taken away with the ebb and flow of time, but to lose something Ignis has sworn to protect is unacceptable. Duty above all else; it's always been that way.  
  
"I assumed you would wake in a state after all you have been through, and so I've had something prepared to your liking." Avoidance was never his strong suit.  
  
"Had prepared."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"As in: you didn't prepare it, yourself."  
  
A minute shake of Ignis' head; there are countless reasons as to why someone else would have prepared the meal. Fatigue. A lack of time. They are in a _hotel_ , by the Gods — why is it a source of suspicion?  
  
"You prefer my cooking. My apologies; I'll be sure to prepare the next — "  
  
"Take your damn glasses off."  
  
"I assure you it isn't necessary." And now Ignis leans back, because Noctis has rounded him, the heat of his hands close enough to raw burns that Noctis can feel them hovering close to his face. He knows; of course he does. Fate does not make kings of fools. Already, the lack of proper sight has its benefits; he can hear the whoosh of air around Noctis' movements when the prince comes in to snatch them from his face, and Ignis reacts with the quickness that had saved sectors of the City and Noctis, himself. While it might be shameful to resort to physically fending off something he is supposed to protect, the true weight of his steadfast vow lies in preventing Noct from taking on additional pain. Guilt. His prince has always been so prone to it.  
  
The body before him stills. Rigid. On-edge.  
  
"You would grab your King?"  
  
" _Formalities_ , Noct," as he forces the arm down, turns his face away once more. "You are a prince until you ascend — "  
  
"Can you see."  
  
"Not clearly, no." White lies have always served to guard.  
  
"How bad is it?" The prince's fist clenches, making the wrist in Ignis' grap stretch and tense. After a too-long second of silence: "Iggy! How bad is it?" And that, Ignis knows, is when the other glances down to the walking stick tucked by his feet. "You're blind."  
  
"Temporarily." Who can really say?  
  
"You're fucking blind!" And if anyone sleeps peacefully in surrounding rooms, they sleep no more. This is when Noctis jerks his arm away, nearly taking his retainer with him. "How. How did it happen? How can you fight!"  
  
"I can fight," he lies through his teeth, this time. Gods, he could barely walk into this room without feeling out the wall along the way, almost stumbled over the ottoman before he sat. "It will heal with time, Noct. My vision is the least of our concerns, right now. If you are determined to keep on with our journey, it will be necessary to procure items for the road ahead."  
  
" _T'ch._ " Ah, there it is. That brat-prince dismissal. Noctis was always a child in the face of minor responsibilities. Reckless thing. "Fine. We leave tomorrow. Send Gladio. I won't have you tripping over your own feet in the process."  
  
An unnecessary jab, but Ignis feels as though he deserves it for forcing Noct to drag the truth from him. A truth that would have come within a day, if not less.  
  
"I will tell him."  
  
"Then you come back, and you tell me. Everything."  
  
_Everything._ No. Ignis will ignore his unbreakable loyalty. This one time, if only if it will increase the chance of the end he witnessed so clearly never coming to fruition. He leans over, reaches for his walking stick, but the cool wood of it is already being pressed into his palm, an arm hooking beneath his own. He wants to tell Noctis that he doesn't require this level of assistance — he made it in here, after all — but there are many upcoming battles, he knows.  
  
May this issue not be one of them. Things will work themselves out in time.  
  
"All right." 


End file.
